It was my duty to remember
by capitolhost
Summary: The Host of the Hunger Games remains a mysterious figure to most. Below the limelight, he is promoting the show with a sleek smile and loud laughter. Who hides behind this mask? Is there more to the man than the myth might tell? This is the story of a particular Caesar Flickerman, how he became famous, how he lived through the years of glory, and how he truly perceives the Games.
1. chapter 01: the white rose

_**chapter 01: the white rose**_

The peculiar part of this rose garden was its uniformity. No petal different from the other, every bush grew the same amount of roses, and the white of their blossoms was never tainted; indeed, pure white is the absence of all other colours. A careful hand found one stem and tugged at it. The flower was removed with a violent rip and no longer was the bush in uniform with all else. The man lowered the rose between both of his hands and began to tug at leaves, cut thorns off and hold the rose against the light. The morning sun shone through the outer petals. He must have examined it to have been worthy enough when sliding the flower in an adorning breast pocket and gazing across the remaining roses. The garden spread around the man in question. All roses had grown from the circle wide and far to fade away. The man himself had become more alike the flowers around him. His hair sported a white dye despite the youth in his appearance. Yet, the ice blue was most distinctive in his appearance. It gazed across the flowers, stretched along the green grass and settled on a mansion nearby. Two guards loomed below the large door and out came a figure entirely disturbing the garden's peace.

The approaching man's steps were hurried in determination. His feet quickened in pace and cheeks painted themselves in pink. He paused only within the rose gardens' circle, briefly bowed and opened the file he had been carrying.

"Mr. President," the red-cheeked man said. He took a long breath and paused.

"Priscus." The president nodded. Bored eyes tore back to the roses, fixating a few ones not too far away. Peace embraced the place briefly. The wind gently finding its way through thorns and petals. But all peace found interrupting once more.

Priscus cleared his throat and his stern voice trailed along the information conducted from his papers. "Sir, Mr. President, the jury of the ministry of media has preannounced the declaration of their next host. I have personally seen to it that the object of interest has arrived here and is awaiting your instructions." He paused. No answer. "I have further arrived to give you last reports on the individual's nature. My men have continued their special interest in his surveillance. As in previous reports, the individual remains unsuspicious, and I have seen to conclude that he is loyal to the Capitol. You can find details in the report, Sir."

In the meantime, the previous pair of fingers had found another rose right below its tips. They brushed past the president's hand and fell back into place when he let go. But his view did not trail along the motion; it was fixed within a point of the green itself. "Take me to him."

The mansion's halls of splendor might have captured a sheer visitor, but both man did not bother themselves with the view. They walked ahead through corridors and past galleries, the sound of their steps muffled by red carpet, and found doors opened for them by further guards around the palace. It was not until a narrow hall that the men stopped. Priscus halts in front of a great door and twists at the golden knobs. "He awaits your questioning, Sir."

The large door swung open and early morning light streamed through the dominating windows opposite of the entrance. In the middle of the room was a young man who sat upright the moment he noticed the visitor. His hands hid in his pockets and his gaze ducked away from meeting the ice blue. The president's thin lips quickened into a smirk.

"Mr. Flickerman." He spoke out loud, capturing the man's attention enough that it forced him to look up. Flickerman shivered and hesitantly covered himself up with a smile. This smile… It was so bright already, despite the lack of physical enhancement. That, the president reckoned, would make the later stages easier. Before the final reveal, of course. But a predator did not need to keep his eyes on the prey, and so the president allowed his view to move away as he sat down opposite of the man on the free silken couch.

He had seen him before. The bold man whose confidence and jest had captured that of the jury enough to suggest him as the successor. Yet, this very man here looked little like what he saw of him before. His appearance was ordinary — which could be adjusted, and he is of a young mind — which could be influenced.

But there must have been enough confidence gathered, because that pair of eyes looked up at him. "Mr Snow — _President_ Snow, I have been informed that I —" he paused, nose scrunched. "_won_?"

"Indeed."

Flickerman slowly nodded. What happened next was a matter of mere seconds, for a smile erupted briefly, disturbed the face that it was placed on and hid away as quickly as possible. There was a sound of a distinct chuckle, too. However, it all was gone and hidden away soon after.

"That is astonishing. Thank you." Seemingly, he did not know where to lift his eyes. The pair fluttered like that of prey, from Snow's smile, to his eyes, to his collar. Strength could not hold it up and any force within evaporated. Flickerman looked at his hands again, a small smile coming and going; hidden in plain sight.

"As it is custom, I wish to talk to you beforehand. The next Games are live in a few weeks. We must prepare you for the stage. And the stage itself, of course." Snow leaned forward. What niceties might have been exchanged beforehand, ice cold hit the one opposite of him. "Any of your ideas will go through me. There is no exception, and no alternatives."

Nervous thumbs came together and apart in rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. "Understood." A first monotone reply. Good. Snow's thin red lips spread apart. White shone back, but the lack of colour contrasted its red all the more harder. For all Snow knew, this host was easy to control. Truly, after the past _unfortunate_ tragedies, Panem needed someone like him.

"I wanted to change the set design a bit." Flickerman introduced. Was there a boldness in his voice? "If that is allowed." Tap. Tap.

Snow raised a brow. Stability would need a never changing stage, but they had afforded too many loses over the past years. If that is what the boy needed — he had allowed new Head gamemakers to set up their arena. A few different set elements would not make too much of a difference. "Granted. However, I would like to see such enthusiasm before it is officially aired."

Another nod. Tap. Tap. The boy was getting on his nerves and steady eyes focused on that pair of hands. Tap …. Tap. They stopped. "Mr. Flickerman, I assume that you know your role very well in this. The position as the host is a significant part in the system and, similar to the Games, your place is vital in the fabric of Panem. I don't like mistakes and slip-ups. _No one does_."

Large brown eyes watched him. For all the security ministry had told him, there was nothing much behind that pair of eyes, thus Snow continued. "However, we ought to be celebratory today, too. Someone with your background did not have similar opportunities, and yet you made it here. You have been chosen and for that —" right thumb and pointer enclosed the stem of the white rose. He pulled it out of the pocket with ease and handed it to the man in question. "I want to give this to you. Congratulations, Mr. Flickerman."

The flower did not move in the pair of open hands. In fact, it remained how he had given it to him. The dead rose stayed unappreciated within or maybe he was too scared to touch it. Has someone like Flickerman ever held a rose? Could he even appreciate its beauty?

"Thank you." Flickerman responded far too late.

Snow nods, briefly. Thin eyes narrowed in shape. This host was not as bad as the one before, but he was not yet satisfied. He would have to see, maybe Flickerman ought to surprise him. Surely, the audition had been rather well. "You may go now. A Peacemaker will lead you out."

And just like that, the new host obeyed and left the spacious office. What an odd candidate they had sent him this time around, but maybe he would make it past the next few years.

* * *

**authors note:** hello i have no idea how any of this works as I am new to writing fanfictions! But thank you so much for reading through this. I am quite excited to finally be posting this and have been working on this fanfiction for some time before coming here. Caesar is my favourite character in the series and I have been writing him in rp for several years now. This is a way of sharing all my ideas about him and the Capitol (and more, but shh! spoilers). As I am somewhat of a newbie any feedback would be appreciated.


	2. chapter 02: face on a paperback

**chapter 02: face on a paperback**

She squealed loudly and his head turned before any thoughts could be shaped. A smooth hand attached itself to his chin and captured its owner.

"You look stunning, my dear," Her voice was raised with the highest of approval: Every word she spoke must have been dipped in honey - it's sweetness attempting to suffocate any form of resistance. "Show me your new smile! They must have _outdone_ themselves for you."

The pulling apart of his lips was no easy task. He had done it all his life, and, surely, until his last day a smile would accompany him. But today, a grimace rather than a beam revealed perfection underneath. A flawless row of pearl white behind his lips. His tongue still had to adjust. Where to put that thing exactly now? Everything he touched was - Cylia burst into approval. Her hand moved his face left and right as dark eyes inspected every tooth individually.

"Cylia, you are leaving marks on my jaw," Caesar murmured under the pressure of long colourful nails digging into his chin.

Her shoulders lowered and the strong grip withdrew from his face, "You are right. Everyone will want to see _that_ smile." A calmer grin widened her cheeks and she inspected her planner again. Careful scratches of a black pen instructed their every move for today. "The interview is scheduled until three. I cannot go in with you, but-" with a snap the agenda closed. Pages were littered with notes in between. Both pen and agenda had been laid aside as her hands came to tighten his tie. "I know you can do your best. We've come so far already. This is much easier than-"

"Than convincing the President I am the ideal candidate?" The odd teeth beamed on his face again.

She shook her head, "That, too. But this is not only President Snow, understood?"

Understood. There was a new risk today. He knew it, too. The first time the Capitol would see his face. How would everyone react? Was he the ideal host? The best the Capitol had to offer? That was theirs to judge, although Caesar long had made up his mind about such facts.

"I believe in you," Cylia whispered. A faint sound, but enough to interrupt his worries, "And I believe in my choices. They have never been wrong." She laughed and his lips parted into a smile, too.

"Thank you," he answered. "You are rather reassuring today."

Cylia's hands stuck at his tie. Her decision to sponsor him must not have come easy. Candidates without a sponsor could not proceed in the audition and the richest or most famous competition had found themselves with several sponsors contending to manage their future winner. Teeth dug into his lower lip. He never dared to question why she had picked him; maybe her heart beat for underdogs or her mind picked someone without support but a hint of talent. Just when he was about to ask, she withdrew.

"It's time for you to go," her reply was oddly quiet. Yet, Cylia stepped aside and hugged her schedule. For a moment she seemed lost. An unknown darkness loomed on him. He tried to hold onto it, but even before questions could be asked, the gloom faded away. Had he only imagined it? She slipped away from his side, chin held up higher than ever. It was about time to leave. Confidence held his shoulders high. If anyone could do it, then it was him.

The door opened to a small studio.

Limelight pierced deeply through his eyes. Crew members were busy fixing the remaining devices around the two chairs. These items were present in the middle of the room; too easy to notice and all attention naturally fell upon the silk furniture. In print, the text was polished to suit every reader, but his initial performance mattered greatly. Panem could only be convinced in this one interview. Hands rubbed his knuckles and fingers reached for a worn ring on his pointer. A steady grip twisted and turned the gold. Perfection parted again and white plastered on his face. His reckless smile threw any doubts away. Shoulders lifted: He was ready.

"Caesar!" Strength radiated from a voice before its origin could be taken in. Glistening brown eyes watched him carefully. She was young, maybe about his age and a dark hand reached to shake his. Oh. Her handshake outshined _his_ confidence. Except — there was more, even in the gentle way she had raised his name. A hint of mystery tugging at his calling. The mere certainty in her eyes knew all the cards he was to play before laying them out. Her makeup was bold, too, not because so many colours accompanied her, but because she had used so little. A silver lipstick and eyeshadow. Nothing more than that; not that she needed it — she stood out just fine.

"Azuree Underberie. I will be interviewing you today." The woman gestured toward the seats.

So, the round of question was to begin. A long path stretched before him, but it was far from dark: All corners in this room illuminated every word, placed it in a new light and brought upon every angle of its meaning. Truth was, Caesar felt oddly excited.

She was new; that much he could tell. Capitol Couture had long reached an active readership among the rich and famous - and these who aspired to be just that. In short, everyone read the magazine. Caesar was no exception: every word had been sought, re-read and stomached ever since he had been young enough to read. The usual Capitol drama, the interviews of tributes and victors. Her name yet had to be made on these pages. Maybe they were not so different after all.

The electronic recorder turned on with a click.

"How are you doing? It must have been a few nervous weeks for you!" Azuree started. He noticed the red light blinking and his soon-to-be-typical wide smile approached his lips.

"Nervous clearly is an understatement. You need to feel my hands, they haven't been as sweaty ever since I wanted to become class president." Instead of hands digging into his trousers, they turned openly on his lap and lifted into mid-air. The world's a stage, and he was ready to capture it.

Azuree offered a half-hearted chuckle. Her quick view moved on from his hands back to his face. "Tell me, how are you feeling about becoming Panem's next sensation?"

Shoulders rolled back in the seat and one leg swung above the other. Cylia had exercised him in _being_ interviewed, but every question deserved its consideration. Eventually, hands folded and he cleared his throat: "I didn't think I would make the cut. The chances seemed stacked against me, if I can speak honestly with you-" brief eyes glanced up to Azuree's nod. "I was scared. I thought no one would take me seriously, but they did. Maybe the gamemakers wanted a type and that happened to be me."

"Some of the auditions certainly speak in your favour," Azuree said. She was right; the televised auditions had split the Capitol in excitement, but not only the jury placed him among the most popular.

"Oh, maybe to you out there! But when you are in there, all that matters is you and the jury. If they don't like you -" his hand waves before his throat and lips pull into a grimace. "I cannot say that it wasn't fun, but ever so nerve-wrecking!"

There is silence. She didn't laugh. Instead, her view drew back to the paper as she likely regarded her questions carefully: "We have heard that you have shaken up the Games significantly already. Is there anything you might already tell us?"

"Plenty. Too many that I really cannot mention yet," a mysterious smile and he moved closer. Elbows pushed inside his thighs. "I might be allowed to share one thing: This year, I will meet the victors eye-to-eye."

"How so?" Azuree asked.

"No details, no! But we have changed the stage already. Different seats so the tribute and I can truly talk about what they want to tell Panem. No more favourite districts. No more lack of interest," confidence pointed a bright beam on his cheeks. "Maybe this year we will have a victor from district ten. Everything is on the table."

Dark brows raised in surprise. If he had managed to stand out during the auditions, now he had made a change. "That's an ambitious undertaking," she stated.

"It is," Caesar leaned back in his seat. The secret had been out. Maybe that is how he convinced the jury. His hand brushed over the red linen of its dark suit. Not many before him had dared as much. Plenty had a clear preference toward more popular districts. Indeed, some tributes were better prepared than others.

He felt a new burning on his shoulders. The next question would matter. Azuree watched him in a different way, her eyes narrowed slightly. What he had expressed so far might have been surprising, but there was more. She would tug at his core.

"What made you want to audition?" Azuree asked.

There it was. He knew something would come. His past was unknown to most. No famous name held to himself. There might have been a Flickerman a long time ago, but his direct family was not important to the great makings. _He_ was not important; until now.

"I …" his voice broke. A first, but hands folded in his lap and pushed until knuckles turned lighter. "I always wanted to get there. Perhaps not as soon as now, but at some point. I should be on stage. I want to be on stage. Not for the fame, no-" he shakes his head, "but for the joy."

Azuree tilted her head. The answer wasn't perfect, but it had to be good enough. And then he did something both very foolish and incredible brave.

"Why did you want to work for Capitol Couture?" he pried.

Her view shot up. If he had impressed by the revelation, he had overstepped a line now. In Azuree's smile was a surprising warmth, though, "I think you and I both like investigate others. Isn't that right, Mr. Flickerman?"

Slim fingers shifted in its embrace and pressure held until his bones ached. He nodded, "You are right, yes. I hope Panem will like their new Games."

"You will find out tomorrow," she answered. "Are you ready for the cover shoot?"

More lights, and a smile that didn't yet fit to him. By tomorrow, he would not recognise himself on the magazine. But maybe that was not all too bad.

* * *

**author's note: **I hope you have had some fun with this chapter! Azuree will definitely return a couple of times; she's a new favourite of mine. But no worries, more canon characters are about to come even if some still have to be born ahaha. My update schedule will be a bit slower than the second chapter. I plan to do it bi-weekly as i'm working on my academics the upcoming months.


	3. chapter 03: the reaping ceremony

_**chapter 03 : the reaping ceremony**_

The large eagle flickered on screen. Its silver wings spread out until the motion stopped and fog lightened the bird. The seal disappeared to reveal two words instead. The audience's reaction was tremendous: in front, behind and to his side roared a cheerful crowd. Their sheer excitement was provoked from such a simple statement: _The Reaping._ An event most Capitol citizens had long awaited. Speculation about the tributes, mentors and the arena this year had held the Capitol in awe for the past weeks. Even Caesar, who knew little of the Gamemaker's plan, was left to wonder himself.

The highly anticipated day caused celebrations around the city inviting everyone to watch. Most young citizens partied at elegant clubs while others preferred to stay at home. Caesar remembered his first Reaping party: Fourteen years young and dancing all night long in the neon-lit club. Now, nine years later, the music was swallowed by conversations around him. This was different than the clubs he had been to before: _The_ exclusive event took place right around him. voces quietly moved about to offer refreshments. A few Gamemakers chatted nearby, a model stood not too far from him and a politician took sight of the buffet. Personalities he had only read about in magazines or seen on television stood all around him. On another day, Caesar might have tried to talk to everyone, but fascination had stuck to the large screen making up half of a wall. The districts had recorded the Reapings throughout the day and had already been broadcasted in the Capitol. However, the evening was reserved for the expert analysis and predictions hosted by retired Gamemakers and the current commentator of the games. Their words waged on the fate of the candidates. Some of them might surely receive high honours, and others were doomed to a soon end. The speculation carried over to the attendants of the party, too, who took it upon themselves to comment. Unbeknown to the tributes, this evening was vital as rich sponsors met at this very party. The program might influence their decision who to sponsor.

Caesar felt a tip on his shoulder. Tearing away from the screen, a large man reached out his hands.

There was no secret who the man in question was. His goatee, the colourful tattoos. Each time he appeared on screen, fresh ink decorated his body. They weren't permanent by any means - otherwise it was rather difficult to stay ahead of trends. Maybe a month or two, Caesar gauged. "Gamemaker Meeculp," words jumbled out in awe. The man who had turned islands and deep forests into exciting arenas. One time, the tributes had to fight in the dark tundra. Fire kept them warm throughout the night and meant a light source for everyone else on the hunt. Strategic thinking had carried a victory.

"No need for all these formalities," his hand was warm and steady. A drink raised, the Gamemaker took a sip before continuing to speak. "I'm Titus and you -" he paused and grinned. "left quite the impression. Still so young and ambitious." Sharpness pierced through his voice and inquisitive eyes strayed down Caesar's body. It seemed his mind had wandered to some place altogether different: Planning for an arena, perhaps. "- Anyhow. What do you think of our material this year?"

The screen behind them had cut to the Reapings itself. Unsurprisingly, District One and Two announced promising candidates. Except for the young boy from One, everyone had volunteered. The first tribute this year, the girl from the diamond district, smiled and waved at the crowd before her. Both tributes from District Two stood proudly on stage, although they made for a rather odd duo as the male tribute towered over the girl. He appeared as a clear winner: attractive, charming, muscular.

"At least we have some fighters this year," Meeculp whispered. He stopped an avox and grabbed a bite of something looking oddly green. On screen, the commentators debated on chances of victory for the first careers, but Meeculp leaned closer to Caesar. "Who is your favourite? Yes yes -" his hands raised in the air. "_'no more favourite districts'_ but you must have some picks. Privately, of course."

Words that challenged a bright red glow underneath Caesar's heavy makeup. The interview, of course. His own words, but he couldn't deny that the chances of careers winning were higher than these of the average contestant. "District 13, clearly."

This answer earned itself a chuckle from the Gamemaker. "You're a funny one. They will love you on air. Eat up your words. Good you are there, not me. Couldn't joke like that," he shakes his head. Something unsteady about his own words tugged at Caesar's attention, but it was far too brief. The confidence this man held didn't add up with a sudden stage fright, but there was no need to question him. Who was he to raise suspicions?

The show on screen had chatted away about the District Three candidates. Both tributes had been no unknown to Caesar — their faces flickered across the screen beforehand today. A girl who looked too frightened and a boy who was too young. Neither were qualities that made for a certain path to victory and little hope could be held for either of them. Both tributes from District Four were about seventeen years old. They shook hands with one another making for a rather odd occurence in the game's history. A tactic already? One of the commentators speculated about their intentions. Possibly friends — now former friends. Or possibly a try to attract more sponsors.

"That will change. Likely avoid each other in the arena as to not face in a battle. The usual," Titus Meeculp shrugged. Unlike many Head Gamemakers before him, he had filled the role for several years. A decade, almost. What leading Gamemakers witnessed was only restricted to a few others. Some film material never went on air and the recaps open to purchase focused mostly on the winner. The opinion of Meeculp mattered more as much as that of the experts on screen. Caesar had to force himself not to burst out with every imaginable question at once. He slid his trembling hands inside his pockets. So many questions!

"Who is your favourite of the careers?" A brief question. Excitement lit in his eyes and he watched the Gamemaker out of the corner of his view. If anyone could call for a winner, it was Titus.

"District Two, male. Maybe. He's got chances. But everyone will focus on him. Too much attention that might get to his head. Hmm," Meeculp shrugged. His arms folded and eyes narrowed. Caesar had seen that gaze before during public interviews. The thoughtfulness before an answer. "District One. The girl. But you didn't hear that from me."

"I can't bet, you know that," Caesar grinned.

Meeculp nodded: "The damn rules, indeed. But you will get rich here if you keep it up. And if not, don't become a disgruntled former. They are far too boring."

Fingers tightened in his pockets. He answered in a light chuckle and filled with a boost of confidence. "I won't. They will have to drag me from the stage." The screen flickered to a new image. A young boy shivering on stage. Cut. The same boy wrapped into a pair of arms on the way to the train station. He must have been about twelve years old, Caesar noted.

"You are of the enthusiastic sort, then?" Meeculp bowed his head. It wasn't without certainty, but Caesar liked to imagine a certain admiration glistening in the Gamemaker's eyes. Maybe it was real, even. The man had become a legend among Gamemakers and, surely, one day he would sit in the round of experts for the Reaping. Oddly enough, all the money he made must have gone to something other than the clothes he wore. Often the same outfit, often black. Fewer investments had been made into the colourful suit Caesar sported tonight. More colours, but lower quality.

Caesar cleared his throat, a new boldness holding his shoulders up and confidence raised his lips. It hadn't bothered the Gamemaker to share his secret winner with Caesar. Maybe he could find out more.

"Are there already any plans you mind sharing for this year?" He asked.

The first answer was a snort. Not of the purely annoyed kind, no. Titus Meeculp shook his head and looked down at Caesar: "All confidential, kid. You know how it is. Unless you tell me what big changes you plan for the interviews." A smirk tried itself on his mouth. It spread apart the large lips and revealed a perfect row of white teeth.

"I-" Caesar sighed. Shoulders lowered in defeat. The changes. A new set of chairs for the tributes to sit down if they feel exhausted. A new stage design that invited even the shy tributes to make it onto stage. A single microphone shared between him and the tribute as some of the candidates had been overwhelmed with the technology. All these secrets dared to come out of him, but he knew better than that.

"Don't worry, you will see it soon enough," Meeculp nodded. "I can give you one hint, though-"

Caesar's head shot up.

"Layers."

The black suit disappeared entirely from his view. Gone was the man in question. Caesar turned around and briefly noticed Meeculp taking another food item from an avox's tray. Briefly, he wanted to take after him, but a loud '_Ohh!'_ cried through the audience.

Looking back up on the screen, Caesar noticed a young boy crying after his name had been called. The number on the top right declared him as the male tribute from District Ten. A lost call already. No crying tribute would survive for long in the arena. They often made for a poor fighter and had little chance of making it to the top five. A shiver ran over Caesar's spine and he shook his head.

The remaining tributes from District Eleven and Twelve competed each other in who made for the most meagre candidate. Most of them were too young to be fighters and Caesar could hardly imagine them standing against the larger careers. Forcing himself to look away after the last tribute from twelve had been called, he wandered off through the room.

The special occasion today had called for rather bold makeup and he even had dyed the tips of his growing hair in a light blue. Nothing like the magazine cover Caesar had graced days earlier. Yet, plenty of eyes seemed to follow wherever he went. Caesar caught a few of their gazes. Young designers and models who he had never seen in real life. As the show slowly ended, a fresh upbeat music sounded through the room. Tonight, as Cylia would have reminded him, was about making contacts. But Caesar didn't feel quite that way. _Tonight was about celebrating._

The loud music drowned in his ears. While the room grew darker, neon lights emitted from the walls. When betting on tributes had dominated the conversations beforehand, voices had grown to flirtatious whispers. Most what Caesar remembered were the people around him. Some lips came closer and carried sweet pleasantries into his ears. He didn't remember their faces — none truly mattered that evening. They all danced into the late night.

When Caesar left, the sun refused to rise for another hour or two. Outside, most places remained open and played music. He could make out a few daring outfits. The sea of large apartment complexes around the Capitol grew smaller and cheaper the further he left the heart of the Capitol. Eventually, the familiar wood ached below his steps. The door closed behind him. Most rooms had been standardised. Three people. Two bedrooms. A living room hosting a large TV and a small kitchen. Most people in the Capitol lived from ready made meals, but Caesar could still make out the smell of freshly cooked dinner that he had missed. His own bedroom opened, clothes fell on his chair, and Caesar slipped into bed. Most Capitolite lived in sheer abundance of money while the rest of the population took debts to secure a similar lifestyle. It was a first to pay with his own money for a costly suit. An apartment on his own had been impossible.

Turning in his bed, the four walls were quieter than the outside world. Was Cylia celebrating the Games as well? How did the Capitol feel about the crying boy? Caesar rolled around to the other side. Surely, there must have been bets already placed on some tributes. It never was wise, but drunk Capitolite loved to throw away their money. How many people had exchanged money at the very place he had been at? Caesar moved the pillow and closed his eyes. Burning in the darkness of his eyelids was something entirely different than the neon lights of tonight.


End file.
